I'm a person who likes to take personality tests. I'm a Four with a Five wing on the Enneagram. I come out as INFJ on Myers-Briggs. On the DISC test, I chart as a high S and moderately high C.
I keep a journal and see a spiritual director monthly. So a recent discovery rather took me aback. I was tooling around the Internet, checking out goodness knows what, and I came upon a description that seemed to have me pretty much pegged: passive aggressive.
What? I immediately thought. Me? Denial set right in. So I honestly looked at some of the indications: fear of dependency, fear of intimacy, making excuses, sulking, victimization. Sigh. Not that these traits dominate my life, but... I do find myself going there when I'm low.
Funny, I thought I've been pretty emotionally and spiritually healthy lately. Could I really be passive-aggressive? Looking at it as objectively as I can, I would say I have those tendencies. And part of me would totally freak out about this. But I think I can recognize this in myself and acknowledge it without overreacting to it or even judging it. It is as it is. I can even sort of laugh at it and accept it. If I'm aware of it—and especially if I name it, I think—I take away its power over me.
This is another tendency that I (and I would guess many) have: we sit in judgment of ourselves, or at least parts of ourselves. We need to just accept ourselves. I often remind myself that I would not be nearly as critical or condemning of these same faults in others. I'm starting to cut myself some slack, too. I know that it's easy to think too highly of oneself, and I know that I have my moments. But generally I tend to lean the other way. I'm sure if I lived in the Middle Ages I'd be wearing a hair shirt all the time.
I was recently diving in again to Personality Types: Using the Enneagram for Self-Discovery. It's one of the seminal works (by Riso and Hudson) on the enneagram http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enneagram_of_Personality. As I read through the nine levels of development in the Four personality type (three levels each of healthy, average, and unhealthy), it was a very accurate road map of my mental and emotional state. I honestly recognized myself in those pages. (It was kind of alarming, like who's been watching me?) I'm happy to report that I spend more time these days in the healthy levels, but I certainly live in the average levels a good deal. And I must admit to dipping into the unhealthy traits from time to time.
Anyway, I think the point of all this is that it's critical that we do know ourselves, warts and all. And some of us need to remind ourselves (and let others remind us) that what we call the warts are all just part of the beautiful mess of being human.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Reasons
"There's a reason for everything."
It's a mantra that seems to be everywhere. People throw it out there in every imaginable situation, from the most banal to the most profound. Unfortunately, it rears its head in the wake of deaths and tragedies like Sandy Hook. And that's where I think it's most harmful. There's a reason that 26 people—including 20 children—died last month? I'm sure the families of the victims find great comfort in that.
In fairness, I understand (I think) some of the motivation behind the old chestnut. People want to assign some meaning, find some purpose to life—particularly the painful parts. But if truly considered, this simple platitude does more harm than good. Back to the Sandy Hook tragedy, it is a serious dark spot on the conscience of our country as a whole, and especially of the community of Newtown. And people want to redeem the tragedy somehow. But it's not as simple as we want to make it. Cliches and platitudes honestly do nothing more than avoid the issue.
We must face the pain. We need to wrestle with it and feel it honestly. There is a a role that grief plays in our lives. Our souls need to experience the hurt, the loss. It's part of life in a world filled with broken, hurting people. Yes, there is joy and wonder, too, but we cannot dismiss the pain and darkness with worn-out, bumper-sticker expressions. If we truly are to find meaning in loss and tragedy, we need to look them square in the face to discern what they may have to teach us.
And guess what? Sometimes they don't have anything to teach us. There indeed are things to learn from the Sandy Hook massacre, I think—lessons about protecting and loving our children (and everyone, for that matter!), honest debates on gun control and public safety, questions about how we deal with and help those with mental illness—and probably many more. But isn't it a terrible price to pay for those lessons? And in some cases, there are no lessons. What lesson is there in the cruel death of a loved one? In a natural disaster? In a debilitating, lingering illness? Oh, there might be some in some cases; but I am convinced that sometimes we just have to face the hard and painful things and go on with life as best we can. One truism that I think we can hang onto is that eventually, things will get better. It's always hard to see in the midst of the dark times, but experience bears this out. I don't often quote scripture here, but I think this passage from Ecclesiastes is both simple and profound: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
It's undeniable that there will often be dark nights, but there will always be a bright morning after it.
It's a mantra that seems to be everywhere. People throw it out there in every imaginable situation, from the most banal to the most profound. Unfortunately, it rears its head in the wake of deaths and tragedies like Sandy Hook. And that's where I think it's most harmful. There's a reason that 26 people—including 20 children—died last month? I'm sure the families of the victims find great comfort in that.
In fairness, I understand (I think) some of the motivation behind the old chestnut. People want to assign some meaning, find some purpose to life—particularly the painful parts. But if truly considered, this simple platitude does more harm than good. Back to the Sandy Hook tragedy, it is a serious dark spot on the conscience of our country as a whole, and especially of the community of Newtown. And people want to redeem the tragedy somehow. But it's not as simple as we want to make it. Cliches and platitudes honestly do nothing more than avoid the issue.
We must face the pain. We need to wrestle with it and feel it honestly. There is a a role that grief plays in our lives. Our souls need to experience the hurt, the loss. It's part of life in a world filled with broken, hurting people. Yes, there is joy and wonder, too, but we cannot dismiss the pain and darkness with worn-out, bumper-sticker expressions. If we truly are to find meaning in loss and tragedy, we need to look them square in the face to discern what they may have to teach us.
And guess what? Sometimes they don't have anything to teach us. There indeed are things to learn from the Sandy Hook massacre, I think—lessons about protecting and loving our children (and everyone, for that matter!), honest debates on gun control and public safety, questions about how we deal with and help those with mental illness—and probably many more. But isn't it a terrible price to pay for those lessons? And in some cases, there are no lessons. What lesson is there in the cruel death of a loved one? In a natural disaster? In a debilitating, lingering illness? Oh, there might be some in some cases; but I am convinced that sometimes we just have to face the hard and painful things and go on with life as best we can. One truism that I think we can hang onto is that eventually, things will get better. It's always hard to see in the midst of the dark times, but experience bears this out. I don't often quote scripture here, but I think this passage from Ecclesiastes is both simple and profound: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
It's undeniable that there will often be dark nights, but there will always be a bright morning after it.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Legacy
This has been a very strange Advent and holiday season. In addition to continuing to come to terms with the passing of my grandfather three months ago, we were also preparing to move. This involved a lot of work (stripping wallpaper, painting, and general cleaning up) at the new house, and sorting and packing at the old house. Add to all of the this the usual hubbub of the holidays, and the last six weeks or so has been quite a blur.
But at the same time, there has been a sense of profound gratitude and peace. The move that I refer to is to my grandfather's house, which we are buying out of the estate. My grandparents built the house in 1956. My mother was ten years old when she moved to the house, and my aunt was born there. What's more, my parents separated when I was very young, and then we moved a lot. So in a way, this house was always home to me. I have many fond memories of it, and of the love and joy that filled it. Christmas Eve celebrations were always held there, as well as Super Bowl parties, poker parties, wedding receptions, Fourth of July picnics, and more.
Now as Joan and I begin the surreal transition of making the home our own, I can't help but recall all the history. I can almost feel my grandparents still here, laughing at our missteps and smiling at our happiness. And although my mother and aunt are alive and well, the spirits of their younger selves seem to be playing around every corner.
The ancient Celts always honored the spirit of a physical place, and I never appreciated that concept as much as I now do. It feels rather like I am picking up a mantle left by my grandfather. It's gratifying and very humbling. (It's also quite fitting that all this is happening on the cusp of a new year.)
So on we go into another chapter of life. It's exciting, uncertain, and a bit scary. And honestly, I wouldn't want it any other way.
But at the same time, there has been a sense of profound gratitude and peace. The move that I refer to is to my grandfather's house, which we are buying out of the estate. My grandparents built the house in 1956. My mother was ten years old when she moved to the house, and my aunt was born there. What's more, my parents separated when I was very young, and then we moved a lot. So in a way, this house was always home to me. I have many fond memories of it, and of the love and joy that filled it. Christmas Eve celebrations were always held there, as well as Super Bowl parties, poker parties, wedding receptions, Fourth of July picnics, and more.
Now as Joan and I begin the surreal transition of making the home our own, I can't help but recall all the history. I can almost feel my grandparents still here, laughing at our missteps and smiling at our happiness. And although my mother and aunt are alive and well, the spirits of their younger selves seem to be playing around every corner.
The ancient Celts always honored the spirit of a physical place, and I never appreciated that concept as much as I now do. It feels rather like I am picking up a mantle left by my grandfather. It's gratifying and very humbling. (It's also quite fitting that all this is happening on the cusp of a new year.)
So on we go into another chapter of life. It's exciting, uncertain, and a bit scary. And honestly, I wouldn't want it any other way.
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